In the Grey
by TheArtfulJackDawkins
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin is a grey area in the world. So is it so bad, Belle wonders as he touches the exposed skin beneath her mask, to let him believe she is some ghost, a music box ballerina brought to life to torment him? Is it so bad to live in the grey? *On Hiatus*
1. Nothing Gold Can Stay

_Disclaimer: I do not own OUAT. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers up to the season 1 finale. From there it will be AU. _

_Rating: T_

_Pairings: , I'll update if I decide to add any other pairings._

_Summary:_ _Rumpelstiltskin is a grey area in the world. So is it so bad, Belle wonders as he touches the exposed skin beneath her mask, to let him believe she is some ghost, a music box ballerina brought to life to torment him? Is it so bad to live in the grey?_

_AN: I've written quite a bit of fiction in my time but never posted anything on this site so be kind. =) Sort of in love with Rumple/Belle right now, and I needed to write this because of that lol. Obviously there are spoilers for episode 1x12 "Skin Deep" and I will be trying to follow the series in my chapters until they diverge from the general plotline of this fanfiction. I made Belle a "Storybrooke name" but if her real one is ever revealed later in the series, I will prolly go back and edit that name in just to avoid any confusion. I do have this as Rumpelstiltskin/Mr. Gold & Belle but I will go into other couples later on, though R/B are the main focus. I love them I just don't think the writers are going to make them "the couple that saves everything". Even though I wish they would lol. Oh and last thing, I do know that in the fairytale world, they probably would not have had the French language let alone French children's songs. Plus Emile de Ravin's accent is Australian. It's just an homage to Beauty and the Beast's origins. Anyway, enjoy!_

**In the Grey**

_Chapter 1_

_"Nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour." _

_-Robert Frost_

Rumpelstiltskin stopped counting the years long before the Dark Curse came rolling through the mountains in a dark cloud. He didn't even remember how old he had been when his skin was traded for toad's flesh and the infinite, ageless power crackling beneath. But he knew he was eighteen once upon a time. He was eighteen and pliable and in a family low on sheep. His father was not a business man—a quality which would prove to be hereditary until magic cured its master—but he knew a good trade when he saw one. And a whole flock of sheep was a good trade when it came to a young girl's dowry.

Rumple's new wife was thin and sallow. Plain. He was never bothered by it though. He had been raised to expect nothing above average and to get by with far less. No matter how much his mother assured him of the opposite, the couple never loved each other the way a husband and a wife should. They were good friends though, and that was plenty for the both of them. It did, however, make the project of conceiving more than slightly difficult. They were all elbows and knees and awkward fumbling. It was to be expected in the beginning but a continuing pattern told of a lack of compatibility that the couple chose to leave unspoken.

Two miscarriages and a lack of effort found Rumpelstiltskin far older than custom deemed normal when he held his first and only child. It wasn't long after that he went to battle a hero and came home a coward. He may have never loved his wife the way the fairy tales said he should, but it still hurt to wake to a hole in his home where a part of his family used to be. It still hurt to lose his best friend. And most of all it hurt that her shame in him was strong enough that she left her only son. Rumpelstiltskin vowed then that no one and nothing would ever take that boy from him.

He made good on the promise. Problem was that all magic came at a price, and he had never sworn to stop his son from leaving. It was lonely for a time and he never did stop missing Baelfire. But as it turned out, when he had no one to lose, power really was all it was cracked up to be.

And then came Belle. Lovely, sweet, brave Belle who fretted over chipped cups and spilled milk but never cowered from him. Falling in love with her was effortless. Her lips were warm and soft and perfect against his and he almost didn't notice the tingling sensation growing behind his eyes. Almost. The beast emerged then, thorn lodged in his paw. It wasn't long after he forced Belle to take her leave that he realized the accuracy of her parting words. Rumpelstiltskin _was_ afraid. He feared a beauty such as she could never love the man that lay dormant beneath wolf's clothing. He feared she would find herself disappointed and throw him away like old fruit left out to rot. It would kill him and there would be no magic left to numb the pain.

But by the time he realized his cowardice, it was far too late. Really, she was probably better off without him. He forgot that princesses were bartered and sold and moved like pawns on their father's chess boards. He forgot what people would think she had done in her long stay alone with him in the castle. He forgot that her betrothed, her only prospect, was now a wilted rose being trampled by the creatures that wandered through his hedges at night.

When the queen finally visited, his newly acquired sullen demeanor had not faded. She knew what he had lost. She knew what his love's kiss would have done to him. She knew Belle's name was not Margie or Verna. But the corrupt beauty was nothing if not antagonistic, and she had been searching a long time for a nerve that would set his blood on fire. She knew she had found it. The word "tragedy" filled his heart with dread. He still inquired though, voice laced with foolish hope that he was wrong about the implications of that word. Perhaps the woman casually making herself a cup of tea was just searching for the same attention she always craved. Belle's father, he was told, had shunned her and Rumple almost let himself breathe. If it was a home she needed, he would provide it. He would never make her dust or launder or fetch him straw again. She could kiss him until every fragment of dark magic was eradicated from his veins.

But the queen had more. She laughed at him as she spoke of the merchant king's cruelty and faded effortlessly into a nonchalant tone for the two words he knew were coming, the two words didn't want to hear. He prayed to whatever god would still listen that she wouldn't say it, that he could just pretend Belle wasn't buried ten feet under or burned to ash and sprinkled on a lawn that he might one day mistakenly tread on. But no god hears the devil.

Belle—his Belle—was dead. And as expected, the words left him breathless.

Three people were to blame: his own foolish self, her father, and that god damn queen. He crafted the Dark Curse for her and reveled in making her kill the only person she loved in this world. That piece of justice was…serendipitous. It only took a few days for her to enact the spell, correctly this time. He had no windows in his prison but he could feel it approaching, welcomed it. The cloud of black made his throat ache as he inhaled deeply. Waiting, waiting…

Mr. Gold, a new name that he knew immediately, woke with new memories, false memories. He retained his old ones, as he knew he would, but the new were still vivid and containable alongside them. His leg hurt again, the only downfall to this odd new reality, and a cane with a golden handle awaited him beside his bed. He had his estate, as promised, with all his belongings transferred to places where he could find them. He searched hours for one item though. It had to be there, couldn't not be there. Finally, in the back of his dresser he saw a glimpse of cobalt on porcelain and he could breathe again.

He never stopped missing Belle. Desperately, erratically. It was a nagging splinter only lodged deeper when extraction was attempted so he stopped trying. And much like before, he found that when he had no one to lose, power really was all it was cracked up to be.

…

She remembered odd things. And within that layer of limited knowledge, she had categorized her memories into two groups. Because when all she had to do was stare at dingy padded walls and a barred window, she had time for that sort of thing.

The first category, she called a vague actuality. These were things she knew should be true. They were computers and high school science. And a father with a temper who shut her out in the snow until her brain had gone all loopy from frostbite. "Vague actuality" felt dream like in quality. It was far away and its edges hazy. She wanted so badly to believe in those memories. Because maybe if she could really accept them as truth, they would release her from her cage.

The second category was what kept her from that end. She didn't know quite what to call these memories but they were vivid and real. They were of merchant kings and ogre wars and silvery-green skinned beasts with hidden, charming hearts. They were of chipped tea cups and red roses and suitors who only wanted to know the extent of her dowry.

They were of a master who spun straw into gold.

The nurses told her she was Leila French but the name sounded dry and meaningless on their tongues. Her name was not Leila, she knew that much. They wanted her to believe of course, and perhaps they even believed it themselves. But that was not her name. She was more certain of that than she had been of anything in her entire life. No matter which life turned out to be the real one.

Fake or not though, "Leila" was the only name she owned. She knew only one other and it was too long, too…unusual to be hers. But it held meaning instead of leaving her feeling empty and emotionless as others did. It was almost sacred, as though speaking it could conjure its master's form.

Rumpelstiltskin. She longed to speak it, call it out in hopes that it did the hold the magic it hummed with.

But no matter how much she wished to say the name, or her own name, or her own fake name, her vocal cords were powerless to do so. No doctors—the few she had seen—knew why exactly. Sound simply refused to escape her.

It was cherry jello day—Monday, though she had never kept track enough to know that—when the monotonous routine that "Leila" had grown accustomed to was finally shattered. This was the day that time began again in her cave beneath the earth. It was fairly obvious that this ward of the hospital was located mostly below ground level. The windows at the top of the padded cells were at the base of the building, peeking just over the grassy earth. They were mirrored on one side, allowing patients a view of the exterior world but shielding those outside from the fright of seeing in. Criss-crossed iron bars protected the glass inside and out. Otherwise, it was actually a lovely view of the well kept grounds at the back of the hospital and of the forest that lay behind. She imagined the area was mainly for the family of upstairs patients or for the patients themselves when they were in need of fresh air. It gave her some sense of entertainment to watch them, to pretend she was a part of that foreign, outside place she longed for.

Leila tucked her calves beneath her, sitting up on her shins to look out once again. The yard was empty today, as it seemed to always be on cherry jello days. There was one person, though: a scarecrow of a man who came from the forest, instead of the hospital, in regular rotation. He was obviously a bit older than she, his brown hair flecked with white and lines in his face beginning to set. And always he wore a gardening apron, rubber boots, and a suit.

'What kind of a person gardens in a suit anyway?' she thought with amusement each time he visited. He hummed with it too though, the same magic as that long and sacred name. Batty as they said she was, she tried to tell herself it was all in her head, an illusion made real in her sickly mind. But he practically buzzed like an angry beehive.

A stone bench sat in front of her window but on the left side, never hindering her view as she was only able to peer out the right anyway. This day, the strange man sat there, giving her a perfect view of him when she pressed herself flush against the wall and tilted her head to the side. He was talking to himself it seemed, or at least mouthing something as the muscles in his neck remained still instead of the erratic twitching that came with the effort of speaking aloud. She had become quite adept at reading lips in her stay in the psychiatric ward. It was the only hobby she had been allowed to develop really. It was for that very reason that the girl's brow furrowed in confusing when deciphering his words came with difficulty this time. Within a moment though, she had worked it out.

He was speaking French, more like singing actually. Or he would have been had he allowed any sound to escape him. It was odd to see a man as imposing and stern as he miming a child's tune, even if he did do solemnly and at a far slower tempo than normal. Her chest bounced in a silent giggle and, for reasons she did not understand, she could not help mouthing the words along with him.

_'Dans la forêt lointaine,_

_On entend le coucou._

_Du haut de son grand chêne,_

_Il répond au hibou:_

_Coucou, coucou,_

_On entend le coucou._

_Coucou, coucou,_

_On entend le coucou.'_

The man stopped, head pivoting in her direction. Picking up his cane, he planted it firmly on the grass in front of him and stood up. Usually, he would have made his way back to whatever gardening awaited him among the trees but, this day, he turned toward her instead of away. She pushed herself as close to the wall as she could. It took more effort, but he was still almost fully visible to her with only the very top of his brow cut off from view. He cocked his head to the side, looking down at her window with a quizzical expression. Even if she could speak, she knew he would not have heard her. The walls were soundproof. She smiled a little though and waved, knowing his view of the action was obstructed. As expected, the man did not respond and after a long moment simply shook his head, making his way back into the forest.

…

It was a Tuesday when Henry grew suspicious of another of his mother's many shady activities. He remembered the day because the whole chain of events boiled down to one mistake: Henry had thought it was Thursday. On Thursdays he always met his mother at her office for dinner before going to see Dr. Hopper. But it was not a Thursday. Meticulous as she may have been, Regina had no way to plan around other people's absentmindedness. Had he not forgotten the order of the week, he may never have seen the hospital blueprints laid out across the mayor's desk. But he did. And had his mother not left her small white paperweight directly next to a room labeled "Psychiatric Ward", he might not have even cared. But she did.

'What kind of fairy tale characters would the Evil Queen lock in a loony bin?' the boy asked himself silently. He found the answer quite simple really. Important ones.

Regina returned to her office to find her son slouching in his usual position on her couch, backpack laying on the floor between his calves.

"Henry?" she started, genuinely confused by his presence. "What are you doing here?"

"Don't I have an appointment with Dr. Hopper today?"

She smiled, all blood red lips and sharp teeth, "Sweetie it's Tuesday. You're two days ahead of the rest of us."

"Oh," his brow furrowed, working the pieces out in his mind, "I guess I thought it was Thursday." Regina's eyes darted to her desk. Her feet followed almost immediately, heels leaving a staccato rhythm in their wake.

"It's alright. I was just getting ready to leave anyway. What do you say we go out for some ice cream?" She began folding up the floor plan laid out so neatly on her desk.

Henry wrinkled his nose a little, "Nah, I'm not really hungry yet. What's that?" Of course he knew exactly what it was, but he had found that feigning ignorance usually worked best on her in cases such as this.

"City Council is looking into adding a new wing onto the hospital," she was all business but quickly smiled, switching her tone so it dripped with honey. "Just boring mayor stuff." Her son wasn't nearly as fooled as an outsider might have been. This was one of her guises to deflect from the secrecy of something. The codes to all three of the hidden ward's entrances weighed heavily in his pocket. He smiled. It was best that she believed she had won. For now at least.

…

Thursday found Mr. Gold locked in a cell, feeling reluctantly reminiscent over "moments spent elsewhere". Emma returned to work exasperated and angry that her promised thirty minutes with Henry was cut to a mere fifteen. Regina, cold as ever, was unconcerned with anyone's happiness but her own. It was so clear to Emma why the young boy had constructed such an elaborate fantasy, his mother heading it off as the main villain. She would never understand the depth of the mayor's heartlessness.

Sheriff Swan entered the station to find Mr. Gold exactly as she left him. His suit was still surprisingly well pressed for a man who had just beaten the shit out of someone, he was still seated as close to the bars as the bolted down bed would allow, and he looked entirely uncomfortable with his position in the small cell. There was however one exception.

"What's with the cup?" she asked, sauntering up to the bars.

"Regina has seen fit to return my property." He looked up at her with one of his odd smiles. They always looked fake, as though some invisible being had snuck behind him and stretched his mouth into a grin. She didn't know why, but she expected him to set the object in question to his side after it had been brought under her scrutiny. He did no such thing. In fact she thought she saw his grip tighten possessively, probably thinking she planned to take it from him.

"Well that was…unusually nice of her actually," Emma said instead. She took a step backward, moving toward her desk. The action made her feel a bit like she was retreating from a coiled rattler.

"Yes," he gave only half a smile now and, though genuine, this one was not happy either, "the mayor can be quite accommodating when it suits her."

She began to ask what he meant by that when another point, having just struck her, rose quickly to her mouth instead, "Wait a minute, is that what all this is about? A chipped tea cup?"

"Just a cup, yes."

"Mr. Gold," she had forgone her plan to flee to her desk and sat on the arm of the blue couch beside him instead, "you beat a man to the point of hospitalization over more than something so…replaceable."

She could see his jaw tighten under the skin, "I was under the impression that we already had this discussion Ms. Swan."

"You'll have to refresh my memory." His shoulders fell imperceptibly. He could sense her preparing for battle, her face stern and eyes set. The thought physically exhausted him. Mr. Gold—no, Rumpelstiltskin was tired of fighting.

"You know as well as I that there is nothing wrong with your hearing dearie." Emma raised a silent brow. He sighed, "What he took is not 'replaceable'." She understood immediately that the two sentences were connected to one another. He was speaking of more than just table settings now.

"Mr. Gold, if someone is in trouble, you need to—"

"My apologies sheriff, but it is not your day to be the valiant hero. The only tales I have to tell are of an empty heart and a chipped cup." It was the first time those words had come from his own lips. Echoing the sentiment stung old wounds more than he had imagined it would.

She found herself a little taken aback by the openness of the statement and paused for a moment. A moment too long.

"I'm done talking." And suddenly the Gold she knew well (or as well as anyone could know the elusive man) was back, all stone faced and sharp. His weaknesses shriveled back inside him, retreating into their stronghold. He let the guise of an unlovable beast wash over him once again and locked himself inside.

No armor, though, could keep him from maintaining his grip on that little, damaged piece of china. And Emma's increasingly rusty skills in the area of private investigation suddenly bubbled to the surface as the puzzle pieces fell together in her mind.

"You must have loved her a lot huh?" He did not move but she saw his grip tighten. "Be careful," she warned, "you'll break it and I don't want to see who'll you will beat the shit out of for that." Mr. Gold grinned, a reaction that surprised Emma.

"Mr. French and I are old fools Sheriff Swan. It would be a wise decision to let sleeping dogs lie," his words, innocent as they seemed, were laced with a threat and it plunged her back into familiar territory where he was concerned.

She shrugged, her hands in her pockets, "Just trying to help," and walked away. One day, Mr. Gold thought silently, one day he would need her help.

Not today.

…

Rumpelstiltskin returned to his estate and found it eerily quiet. A mere two weeks previous, this would have been nothing extraordinary. Things were…different now though, and he tried not to wonder at how quickly he had grown accustomed to the little princess's presence. This time of day, though, she had been making a habit of cooking supper with very little grace and above average clatter. The kitchen was silent, not even the sound of her small steps emanating from its depths.

He found her in the upstairs library, the book she had been reading abandoned on the windowsill. Belle herself was in the middle of the foyer singing as loudly as her lungs would allow and waltzing with a broomstick. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. It didn't take long; a moment later the girl was stumbling over herself in an effort to hault her movements.

The imp clapped slowly, mischievously, "Bravo mademoiselle!"

To his utter astonishment, she smiled through her blush and gave a curtsy, "Forgive me. I was—"

"Distracted?" he cut her off. "I could see that. Whatever was that song you were singing dearie?" He was teasing her; that much was obvious. The truly surprising thing though was that she seemed to be enjoying it.

"Dans la Forête Lointaine," she told him, raising her chin proudly, the broom handle held in her palm like a royal scepter.

"Ah and what does it mean?"

"It's just a children's song," she waved a hand as though to say it was nothing of importance and let her chin fall back to its usual setting. "It's about a cuckoo bird in a faraway forest trying to talk to an owl." She was still blushing, a fact that Rumplestiltskin found more than a little bit amusing. "Would you like me to teach it to you?"

"Oh I am afraid I have no talent for other languages. And us beasts must avoid looking foolish in front of our captives!" Belle laughed a little and shook her head as she returned to her sweeping. Not too long after, she was singing to herself again. Her master quickly realized that he would probably learn the song whether he liked it or not.

More than twenty-eight years later, it was still stuck in his head.


	2. Blackbird

_AN: I'm very sorry to say that I had to put this story on hiatus. To be honest, I'm not feeling season 2 of OUAT as much as I was the first season. Don't get me wrong, I still like it. It's just not holding interest as much as I had hoped. However, I am giving it some thought and am considering a way to continue. I'll probably go AU though. I sincerely apologize. Until then… _

_Chapter 2_

"_Blackbird singing in the dead of night: take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life you were only waiting for this moment to be free." -The Beatles_

It was a little cough took Belle's mother, a little cough that grew and spread like ink spilled on white satin. The young girl did not cry though. Not the day it happened or even at the funeral. She was too young to understand the very idea of death, let alone weep the moment someone rose to claim it. The tears came later when Eloise, her nanny, served Earl Grey tea to Belle's china faced dolls. _Momma_ knew peppermint was their favorite. _Momma_ knew the blonde headed one was allergic to Earl Grey. When was _Momma_ coming back? And she cried the way all children do, with violent, agitated screaming and limbs flailing. Papa, always her valiant hero, culled that not yet tamed animal instinct pouring from her. That was the first moment she met Death and began to understand what it entailed. Death was a forever goodbye, the kind of goodbye that never found hello again. A shoe that lost its mate.

Time made scars of old wounds. The memories of her younger days grew hazy as she grew older but she never stopped reaching for that pedestal where her mother, where Queen Rose, had been shelved. She was the type of brave that was hard for Belle to even dream of matching. She was the type of brave that dressed as a man and snuck out to battle on the night of her sixteenth birthday. She was the type of brave who fought with tooth and feet and claws when she was discovered two days later. She was the type of brave that didn't cry when she was flogged for her impudence.

"Do the brave thing," Rose had told her daughter once, "and bravery will follow." Brave things were hard for Belle to find though it seemed. The castle had learned from the previous lady of the house not to teach princesses with hard heads and valiant hearts how to use a sword, to stick with dancing and embroidering pillows instead. In the end, she retreated to her books, a passion she had inherited from her father. The library could take her anywhere she wanted to go without even disturbing the butler. The castle's collection of literature grew with its mistress, the walls of that room watching her age from all legs and arms and awkward nose to a lovely, young woman. A lovely, young, _eligible_ woman.

Her father began with good intentions. He wanted his daughter to marry for love, as he had, and he had assumed that, given her beauty and station in the world, it would not be difficult for her to find a mate. But she was a funny girl. She cared nothing for outward appearances. Most needed that physical stimulation to kindle the stirrings of love in their hearts. Not Belle though. Belle saw people inside-out. She was not fooled by smooth voices or handsome faces. It should have been a gift, a blessing that all acknowledged and cherished. Instead, as the beauty grew older, her people grew anxious. War was imminent and his subjects did not need another worry to cloud their minds. All things considered, the king chose his most trusted soldier hoping that perhaps Gaston was the type of man his daughter might grow to love. They were to be married within the month.

Fate had other plans though.

The first image Belle held of Rumpelstilstkin was of him seated in her father's chair, a mad glint in his eye and the whirling magic beneath roused to a point that was almost suffocating. She chose him. It was the first real choice she had ever made on her own.

He was not at all what she had expected him to be. He made her laugh, never scolded her, treated her as his companion instead of his servant. Belle could not let herself admit how hard she had fallen. She wanted to, felt it searing through her veins, begging her for release. But there was something in him, something other than Rum himself. A weed grew in his heart that choked out anything else that tried to develop there.

"Do be careful dearie," Rum was cheerful as always. "Place will go to ruin if its caretaker gets snatched up by wolves." He had already told her he did not expect to see her return so she could hear the story of his son. It was all a show now, a ruse to avoid that goodbye that would sting both parties in a way no other word could right then.

Belle pulled a large wicker basket down from the closet. To carry straw on her journey back. She wanted to avoid this as much as he, and so she chose to pretend along with him. "Who me?" she turned from the door with a slight flourish. "As though wolves don't cower in fear at the sight of me."

Here she expected a giggle and a quip to continue the façade. Instead, one of his halfhearted grins stretched across his lips. He looked down and back up, his brow furrowed. Her heart pounded hard against her ribcage in dread. He would say his farewells now and she wasn't ready for them.

"Call for me," the imp said instead

Now her brow was the one to crease, "I'm sorry?"

He cleared his throat a little, "If you do happen to encounter a wolf that is braver than you, call my name and I will come to your aid."

"How?" Belle asked skeptically, looking at him sideways.

"Why by magic of course! I can always hear when I am called. One of my many talents." He gave a wide bow that drew a grin from her. Anything to make her smile.

"Doesn't that get annoying what with all the gossip you cause?"

"It's only when I'm called dearie, not when brought into idle chit chat. And none of these nicknames you have grown so accustomed to either. Only my entire, ridiculously long name will do."

"Yes sir," she told him with mock seriousness. And they didn't say goodbye. They continued their game in such spectacular form as would make even the great stage actors green with envy. If she was honest with herself though, Belle knew that—had the Queen not stopped her on the road—she still would have returned to her master, though it may have taken a bit longer. The woman in black's words gave her such hope. Her mind told her to be wary of this odd stranger but her heart fogged her judgment. She wanted to eradicate that parasite burrowed deep in her love's mind.

And so she kissed him. The magic rolling from his skin tingled as it touched her lips, the thin threads of electricity dissipating as they raced into her cheeks. Rum broke her heart then. He shook her till she was dizzy, yelled until her ears were numb. She had hurt him, and though she knew he was wrong and cowardly, she could not help but feel the sting of wounding one she loved.

He cast her out the following morning. Belle thought, with eyes full of heavy tears and gravel crunching beneath her feet, that this must be the end of the sad tale of Beauty and the Beast. It was only the beginning.

…

Emma was keeping the station a notch higher in temperature than she knew was entirely comfortable. Mr. Gold wasn't sure what she wished to accomplish but whatever it was, he assumed she was failing. Her success rate was astonishingly low so far. He lay on the stiff, prison mattress, his suit jacket placed neatly across the metal bed frame and his top button undone. He rested his bad leg in front of him while the other's foot was set firmly on the concrete floor, ready to lift him up and escape if an opportunity presented itself. The sheriff had never seen the pawnbroker—and apparent loan shark—look so…casual. But then, she reminded herself, he _had _been locked in that cell for nearly two days. She fit the key into its lock. The sound of sliding, scraping metal echoed in the small room as she pulled open the barred door.

"You made bail," the blonde told him, sounding thoroughly unamused by the fact. She held his cane out for him nonetheless, looking every bit to Gold like a wary passerby luring in a wild dog with the promise of some treat. He hoisted himself up, hobbling with little ease in her direction. Once he was close enough, he snatched the walking stick from her awaiting palm.

"Shocking," the man dead panned.

"You'll have to sign a couple papers in my office before you go." He did not respond except for a low humming noise from the back of his throat. Sheriff Swan, he noted, was not indulging his disgruntled temperament but he could feel her eyes glaring pointedly at the back of his neck. The pawnbroker shrugged his suit jacket on and slipped the chipped tea cup in his hand—a bitter reminder of the recent words between he and the mayor—into its side pocket. He acknowledged and accepted that the sight was less than inconspicuous.

"Pen?" he asked sharply, leaned over her desk. Emma appeased him after loudly rifling through various objects in the drawer. The woman did not have a particular knack for organization, he observed.

The black ink was gliding across the release forms in Gold's tall, thin signature before the sheriff accumulated enough initiative to ask, "How did you know his daughter?" He stopped mid-stroke, quickly catching himself to finish his writing.

"Whatever do you mean Ms. Swan?" he replied smoothly, placing the pen atop the papers and straightening himself.

"Mr. French's daughter? Leila? Who mysteriously disappeared about a year ago?" She was stony and determined again, and it made him question his sanity when originally planning to lure her here. "'You were her father'?" she finishes, letting him know she had heard more than she originally let on.

"I suppose that does ring a bell."

Emma gave him a sardonic look that she had seemed to have perfected some time ago, "Who was she?"

"A housekeeper," he says with a wave of his hand, a little of Rumpelstiltskin's gesticulation seeping to the surface for a brief moment. Her gaze does not waver. "And fiancée," he consents.

"Robbing the cradle a bit there, don't you think?" the woman says with raised eyebrows.

"Well I do believe there is a rumor going around about me hunting children for their pelts."

She favored her original tangent, "What did French do to her?" Gold paused a moment before answering, calculating his response and carefully extracting his Storybrooke memories of the situation. He had to keep the old and new distinctly defined in separate categories for fear they may begin to bleed together.

"Moe was drunk, threw her out into the snow and locked the door. Poor girl didn't have a car or even a phone. And no one saw fit to answer their doors for her," he stopped for a second, looking down at the silver head of his cane and then back up. "She died. Froze to death somewhere near the corner of Rose and Belle Avenue." His tongue was laced with business and cold, harsh facts, but Emma could feel tension in his voice. A string pulled so tight it might snap.

"I'm sorry," she told him, half genuine, half taken aback.

"Not your fault dearie. But as you can see there is no use trying to be the white knight when there is no one to rescue." She furrowed her brow a little, cleared her throat, and picked up the stack of papers still in front of him. Their exchange was awkward after that, Sheriff Swan obviously feeling a little guilty for opening old wounds and not particularly good at dealing with grief. She suddenly felt a little _less_ sorry for Moe French and a little _more_ understanding of Mr. Gold's actions toward him. Maybe, she thought when she could no longer hear the awkward pattern of the pawnbroker's steps, she would just forget about the situation—at least until (or if) French pressed charges. And if he didn't, well maybe she would just let them work it out themselves.

Which was precisely the train of thought that Gold had been counting on.

…

The wall that guarded the castle looked precisely the same. The blood red draw bridge still loomed over head like a dragon protecting its hoard, and gooseberry vines, lush in the spring weather, crept up the grey, worn stones as they always had. Vigilant guards stood at the top even in the darkness of the new moon, spears held perfectly parallel to their stark still forms. Belle whistled, hoping the tune to enter had not changed in her time away. She heard the sweet sound of gears and chains and creaking wood confirming it had not. Her lithe form backed quickly out of the way of the descending plank. She could feel a bubble of excitement forming in her chest as the streets of her village crawled into view.

The draw bridge emitted a soft thud as it connected with the grassy earth. Belle did not miss a beat before running across the wooden boards, shoes clacking out of rhythm. If she was honest, she knew it did not feel like home there anymore, but it felt like something close. A home when home had cast her out. She turned, blue skirt swinging, and whistled to the guards once again to signal the gate could be retracted.

Before she could even turn back toward the road, something snapped over her mouth. Cold dread washed over her like plunging into ice water as her senses returned. The smell of leather, a gloved hand over her mouth and nose. A solid mass behind her, a man holding her flush against his frame. A soft breeze washing over her right ear, his breath, steady and calculating. Belle screamed, the sound tearing at her throat but only amounting to a small squeak in the silent street.

"Sh," her captor said after a moment, "I'm not here to hurt you." She looked at him from the corner of her eye with a skeptical brow. "Your father will explain everything shortly but if I let you go, you must promise not to make a sound."

She seemed to mull the idea over in her mind for a moment before slowly nodding her consent. The unnamed soldier released her, the leather of his glove sticking to her lips awkwardly as he pulled away. He bowed when an appropriate distance was put between them.

"Forgive me, your majesty."

"What is your name?" she spoke softly but with obvious confusion still lacing her words.

"William," he straightened and adjusted his vest with a tug, "I am a good friend of your fathers. Three of us have been assigned to this area in case you should ever return."

"Why? What's wrong? Is my father unwell?"

"Your father is in wonderful health," 'William' tells her assuredly. "As for the rest, it would be best if he was the one to explain. Come with me." He motioned forward with a wave of his arms, as though she was ignorant of the way to a castle she once called home. They walked in silence the rest of the way, only the sound of gravel crunching beneath their feet relieving her ringing ears.

They entered the castle and she couldn't help but notice that the outside of the wall was not the only thing to have eluded change in her time away. In fact, her father even stood in the exact same spot as the day Rumple escorted his daughter out of the room with congratulations and a giggle she had never imagined growing fond of. The king looked more browbeaten now in only his night clothes.

His daughter smiled, throwing her arms around his neck with the word, "Pappa!" bouncing gleefully from her lips.

"Belle," he did not say it happily but with saddened regret.

She pushed away from him, looking up into his woeful expression, "Pappa what's the matter?"

He screwed his eyes shut in obvious pain. He spoke quickly, a man with many words and little time, "Belle you must leave this village and you will not be permitted to return to it."

The words hit her, unexpected and cold. She had only just been cast from one home only to be cast from the next swifter than she could regain her footing. It felt helpless, like the salty ocean waves crashing against her back and knocking her to the sand only to be hit by another when she tried to lift herself from the shifting ground.

"Wh-what? Why?" her eyes went glassy. She blinked the sensation away.

"There isn't much time to explain. We must be quick," he told her, with evident urgency on his tongue. "The people they—they are calling you a demon's whore. They will not stand for your return."

"Then you will make them accept it!" she was frantically grasping at straws.

"The clerics have planned to cleanse your soul with…scourges and flaying should you ever return here. I will not let you suffer that fate. They have a mob of people in their following. Not to mention a great portion of the soldiers. There is nothing I can do to stop them if they find you."

"But—."

"I love you my daughter," he slowed for a mere moment, touching the side of her face and stroking her cheek with his thumb, "but this is the only way."

"Pappa..." Belle felt him take her hand and place something heavy in her open palm. She looked down, a fat tear finally tumbling over her bottom lashes. There, in her outstretched hand, her father had placed a rather large pouch filled with gold coins. She looked back up at him, blue eyes filled with dread.

"Go. Now." And she ran.

…

Henry was a smart boy. No one really ever gave him credit for that. He caught on quickly in school, found his biological mother using only a website and a stolen credit card, and seemed to be the only person in his town to have caught onto the eerie similarities between the townspeople in Storybrooke and his book of fairytales. The proof was there, they were just blinded by the curse that stitched itself into the air around them. Once this was over, they would all feel very silly.

This day though, he was using his intelligence for just a little bit of mischief. He had waited a few days after finding the security codes to the psych ward before making his move. Didn't want to be too conspicuous, of course. After a while though his curiosity had gotten the best of him. 'Curiosity killed the cat,' the good little boy in him whispered. Few knew the remainder of that famous phrase though.

'Satisfaction brought him back.'

Getting into the ward was not nearly as hard as it should have been. The door in the back of the hospital building led to a completely unguarded entrance, Henry remembered as he punched in the four digit code. He straddled the wall as he descended into the basement, making sure to check around the corners for anyone who might rat him out before he could even see one patient. The boy fought the urge to hum the theme to Mission Impossible—something his mother would be shocked to learn he even knew—as he continued his way down the unoccupied hall. In retrospect, he was very lucky. At any moment, a janitor or nurse could have begun down the hall and spotted him. The little prince was a bit charmed though, even if he didn't know it.

He came upon a few vacant rooms at first and one that he was sure housed the Mad Hatter. It was the fifth room though that really gave him a lead to go off of. Henry stood up on tiptoe, lifting the metal shutter to peer into an empty room set up much like the other four he had seen. He thought perhaps this one was unoccupied as well until a pair of sky blue eyes set in a pallid face popped into view. The boy jumped, barely avoiding releasing the metal pane and sending the sound of it crashing back into place echoing through the ward.

"Holy cow!" he said in a low voice. "You scared me!"

The girl tilted her head to the side a little.

Henry continued on, hoping she was more than just a little off her rocker, "Hi. I'm Henry." She backed up a little so the boy could see more of her face and neck. Very deliberately, she tilted up her chin and patted her trachea lightly, shaking her head.

"You can't talk?" he asked, catching on quickly. She nodded. Henry pulled his backpack around, having just come from school, and rooted around in its depths for moment. After a long rustling, a pen and a pad of paper poked through the slot in the middle of the door.

"Do you have a name?" The patient's face disappeared for a moments, leaving only her matted brown hair for him to look at while he waited. Finally she held up the pad in front of the window.

"_Leila?"_

"You aren't sure?" he asked after reading her answer. Leila's brow furrowed as she scribbled some more.

"_I don't remember much."_

Henry looked both ways before continuing his interrogation a little softer, "Do you remember anything that doesn't seem to belong…_here_?" She seemed very apprehensive about this question and, after remembering his surroundings, the boy quickly deduced why. "I won't think you're crazy, I promise." The brunette eyed him warily, sizing up his character with the only tool she had at her disposal. After a moment, she nodded.

"Do you remember anything in particular?" he seemed excited by her gesture. "Anything at all?"

"_Rumpelstiltskin," _was the answer he received.

"I don't really know who that is yet," he told her, looking a little disheartened.

"_Can you find him?"_

Henry nodded his head assuredly, "Operation Cobra is all over this Leila. You can count on me." He took back the pen and paper and stuffed them in his book bag. The girl smiled out at him, touching her chin and then holding out her hand in a sign he recognized but couldn't quite put his finger on.

As he ran up the steps toward the exit and punched in the code once again, the meaning finally came to him.

"_Thank you." _


End file.
